Archives for December 2015

Hard to believe. All of my cynicism around the likelihood of actually finding a soul mate has been exposed and dissolved. The woman of my dreams has arrived.

Birds are singing.

Who says nice guys finish last? Horse poo. It only took me fifty-four or so years to find true love. Imagine how many people die loveless? Not this fella. Hell, no. I’m in love with the second most beautiful woman. (Mom is #1.)

I see rainbows.

Amazing what this love thing does to a person. I feel younger, lighter, and much less in need of that next beer. Annoying people tend to annoy me less now. Guy walking through the parking lot thumbing your phone, you just walked right in front of my moving car. I slam on my breaks, and the pie on my passenger seat mashes into my dash. But, does this upset me? Do I honk and give you the one-finger salute? Nope. This driver is in love. You’re not spoiling my day, mister.

Love is in the air.

Anyway, about my princess—she’s delightful! Sorry. Don’t mean to gush so much, but I can’t help myself. You know? It’s like they say: Once you stop trying so hard, and just leave things up to Nature, stuff has a tendency to work itself out. That’s what happened here. I went out nightly, in search of love. I had a few tiny tastes of romance here and there, but my relationships felt empty. Then, I made a rare grocery shopping trip, and accidentally bumped carts with an angel. Her smile melted me. I never imagined I’d find love next to the cured meats section.

Colors are brighter. The sky is bluer.

I followed my own advice, and asked if she’d share a peppermint latte with me. We loaded the groceries into our cars, strolled to Starbucks, and chatted like we’d known each other for decades. Conversation flowed. My heart pounded through my chest. Santa brought this naughty guy something nice in 2015.

I feel like skipping and singing Elton John songs.

Can’t wait to spend New Year’s Eve with her. That will be our fifth official date, and (tee hee) I think it might include (*gush*) a SLEEP-OVER! I know! Right? I haven’t been this excited since Pop handed me the keys to my first car.

I want to yell to the world: “I think I love her!”

Ooh, look, she just texted me. She’s so good about that. We have opened a wonderful channel of communication. I never need to wonder what’s on her mind. She tells me. Ah, a relationship built on a deep foundation of friendship.

Hey, Phil. It’s awkward not doing this in person, but I wanted you to know. Although you’re such a nice guy, this really isn’t working for me. I’m sorry.

Actually, it’s a faulty pecker picker or pussy picker depending on which (or both, let’s hope) you prefer to pick at this particular time.

If you have lady parts, you may be inclined to think the fault is in the peckers you’ve picked. Nay, I say. My pecker is quite perfect. It makes pee and pearly puddles.

(OK, enough with the Ps. My screen is spotted.)

My point is that the pecker you have chosen is probably attached to a man-tard. The pecker is fine; the pecker support unit is quite faulty. He may have an odd sense of what is important in life. He often chooses things he has no control over (e.g. the Eagles winning a Lombardi), instead of things he has much control over that could improve his life (e.g. eat less bacon and more pussy).

So, logic would tell you to focus your picker above the waist. Heck, most peckers are around six inches, and come with very similar user manuals. The differentiating factor is in the accessories. If the ball of beer-soaked brains atop the unit is inclined to be kind, then that pecker will probably do. If it yells, ignores, or mistreats you, be prepared for a series of abuse and makeup sex. If that suits you, ignore me and my compassionate pecker.

Lest you think I’m pointing peckers, I mean fingers here, I am absolutely guilty of having a defective pussy picker. My most significant fault is picking pussy that does not pick me—unattainable pussy, so to speak. I’ve had this problem since third grade, when I anticipated Miss Sinclair’s willingness to marry this prepubescent lump of goo, because I had an awesome baseball card collection. I was also too young to toss out a fantasy batch of poison to quell my too-hot-for-teacher desires.

I should have matured and learned. I did not. Nor, sadly, did the most recent pecker you’ve picked, most likely. No, I still pick pussies attached to people who want gods, children, dogs, and camping trips. Are these women superior to cat-loving atheists who appreciate the comfort of a Tempurpedic? Nope. Then, why can’t my picker tune in to better options? Why must this dog chase the feral cat?

Wish I knew.

Perhaps it’s Nature’s way of forcing diversity. Maybe we are instinctually shoved toward things unlike us, in hopes that we might mix and create something new and unlike us both—self-entitled brats who watch reality TV and smoke weed all day, while keeping the rest of us absolutely uninterested folks informed by typing status updates with their thumbs. (Gosh, I love kids. Don’t you?)

Look, here’s the moral: Don’t judge a tree by its root. No, that’s not it. Um, far better to be a lesbian. Undeniable, but still not my point. Fuck. How about this?

“You bought the lemon. Now, either make lemonade or get away from lemon trees, and start picking berries. They’re sweeter.”

The mating scene has certainly changed over the years. Before I was married in 1990, mates were found either at work or in bars. Office love was frowned upon, and barroom love was easiest due to lowered inhibitions (a.k.a. tequila).

Once I reentered the scene in 2003, a new arena opened called “online dating.” This is where lies and embellishment flourished, women tapped their creative depths in designing their profiles, and men continued to ignore everything that didn’t include boobs. Suddenly, everyone’s age ended with a nine, the term “athletic” took on new meaning, and men developed delusions of tallness.

Now, we’ve gone from finding a mate on a barstool to finding a mate on a mobile phone. A tap of an app, and a bevy of beauties are paraded in front of me. I play gatekeeper with the mighty swipe of my index finger.

“What’s this? Fish face? To the left for you, my dear. I discard thee.”

“Cute face on this one, but her face takes up the entire frame. Something tells me (experience) that the parts not shown are potentially hazardous. Swipe right, with two fingers.”

One thing remains the same with the mating game: Those who fire the most bullets, land the most meals. To be uber-successful in this game, one must put aside all fears of rejection, and chase prey, relentlessly … well, up until restraining orders are filed.

This requires more than just swiping or liking. This requires approaches tailored to the prey. Your prey can easily detect when you are using generic approaches, such as, “Hey, you’re cute. We should meet for a drink sometime.” To be effective, scour the prey’s profiles for tidbits. When I see pictures of the woman holding white wine, wearing a marathon contestant number, and taking selfies at the horse races, I customized the approach.

I sat there quietly sipping my tall G-and-T, while taking mental notes as two female friends discussed the shortcomings and virtues of men in their past. The Heisman Trophy of orgasm delivery went to a man described as an “attentive” lover. I pried.

“So, that means he went down on you regularly.”

“Of course.”

“That’s all it takes?”

“No, silly man. Other parts of a lady need attention.”

“Do tell.”

“We love our hair caressed, shoulders and feet rubbed, and back tickled. Important, as well, is that our mind is stimulated.”

“… with a feather?”

“Treat us properly. Remind us how beautiful we are, how fortunate you are to have us in your life, and do the icky things around the house that would fuck up our nails.”

“… with a vacuum?”

“You’re being silly. That wasn’t on the list, was it?”

“Fine. But, it all really comes down to if he can get you off.”

“I can get myself off.”

“Prove it.”

“See, being a perv is also not on the list.”

“Tell me I’m wrong. If a man does all those non-sexual things wonderfully, but refuses to head south, so-to-speak, he will be an inadequate lover.”

“You’re not wrong.”

“So, it all starts with him knowing how to rub you the right way—down there, on your hoo-hay.”

“Humor is an attractive trait, so I’ll give you that. Yes, of course, my man needs to know how to get me off in order to be described as an attentive lover. Also, it’s not prom night, so I have no problem steering his ship.”

“Well, hooray for that!”

“… not that it means he’ll follow my directions. That tends to be another issue—a man thinking he knows a better way. I’ve lived with my lady parts for forty-eight years. I think I’m best qualified to say how to ring my bell.”

Although the thought of wearing one of these gives me high anxiety, I have worn a few in my day, and am qualified to help ladies looking to gift-wrap a willy.

First, you need to know your objective. Yes, I know you want him to keep his skeevy diseases to himself. I have a firm grip on the obvious.

I’m referring to pleasure objectives. Do you want to enjoy this or should he? Because, if you’re concerned about his pleasure, all condoms suck—it’s simply a matter of how awful each type is. The most fun parts of getting it in, include knowing that it’s in (without asking). Condoms help about as much as if you ask Siri.

“Siri, has the Eagle landed?”

“Not really.”

“Ooh, wrong landing pad?”

“Actually, it appears you’re friction-fucking the mattress. And, by the expression on your lover’s face, it appears this will be your last chance to dock, before her station leaves your orbit.”

“Gee, thanks, Siri.”

Condoms really are horrible for men. It’s like swimming with a ski mask on. Driving with your elbows. Um, drinking coffee through a tall, thin cocktail straw. No? Bathing in sweatpants. Licking a paper towel. Look, it fucking sucks, so get the thinnest ones you can find. While you’re at it, also get some morning after pills and tongs for when it breaks.

But, if you’re concerned about your pleasure, you have options. They have ones with speed bumps and nubs. If your man has been known to be a two-pump chump, get some really thick ones. He’ll last longer than that UTI you had last month. Perhaps, get him a girlie magazine too, in case his eyelids become droopy mid-coitus.

Oops, almost forgot. There is an exception to the rule that handing your man a condom will make him miserable. If, and only if, you are insisting upon the use thereof because you are about to grant him limited access to your dirtiest of places (no, not your condo in Los Angeles), then he’ll have that sucker unwrapped and strapped on his poo torpedo in two seconds flat. He may even doo-doo a happy-happy dance while rolling it down. Ignore that.

Now, the other question I am typically asked is, “Uncle Philsy, how many condoms should I buy?”

“Is zero an option?”

“No.”

“Then it depends on how many times you expect to be penetrated before your next Rite Aid run.”

“Umm, twice.”

“Then buy one.”

“Huh?”

“You can turn it inside-out and use it again.”

“Ew.”

“Fine. Buy a dozen. It’s not like they spoil.”

“Lubricated or not?”

“I might ask you the same question.”

“Ah.”

“Good girl. Now, get crackin’. Oh, and please pick me up a peppermint patty while you’re in there.”

Another topic of discussion is how to dispose of the sheath. Some women are paranoid, and to those I say, “Once he gets off, push him off, pull it off, run into the bathroom, and flush it. Be kind, and return with a Wet-Nap.” Typically, however, condom disposal is the man’s duty. The smartest thing for him to do is remove it immediately, tie the end like you’re about to make balloon animals, place it in a zip-lock sandwich bag, put it in your jeans pocket, and remember it’s there so you can flush it with confidence.

As far as the condom wrapper is concerned, I always like to kick it under the bed. This is a “Man Code” thing designed to warn the next lover. I once found three hair ties, two cats, a watch, softball bat, and six wrappers under my lover’s bed. They were magnums. I was saddened.

So, if you’re sitting in the CVS parking lot reading this, I encourage you to skip the condoms and buy chewing gum. Your man will appreciate it, and, with any luck, buy me a tall, frosty beverage.

This time of year can be depressing … for the needy type. Loners, introverts, and narcissists rejoice at the thought of all the bad sweater and white elephant parties we get to avoid. Yet, we admit a certain sexy elf might make the gaudy lights stapled to our eaves shine a little brighter. The thought of sipping cider (spiked, of course) by the yule log on the flat screen, while the Trans-Siberian Orchestra blasts “O Come on Ye Faithful” doesn’t sound entirely repulsive.

So, where does one find such a holiday enhancement? Well, there’s the usual: Match and Tinder. Coworkers at company parties can be ripe for the picking, but that could land you in front of some disapproving whale from HR. The holiday bar scene can be fruitful. Single women tend to lower their standards around the time of year. (Thank you, Santa.) Slugs, like me, can sometimes be scooped up at bargain prices.

If it’s going to be more than a one-nighter, all sorts of things can have your holiday lover flying back up the chimney. Young children—while being the deluded bunch of mush-minded targets this holiday was created for—tend be exceptionally needy, whiny, and annoying around this time of year. If you attempt to connect them with your holiday lover, you’ll create anxiety, and a return ticket to the bar where you found him or her.

Also, please be sure to specify that no gift is expected from the holiday lover. In fact, a gift would be completely inappropriate (except for oral favors, which are always in-season).

People visit family during these holidays. It often involves flights or long commutes. Those are things you need to do alone. Your holiday lover, while providing some comfort and relief during the trip, does not belong at the destination. Meeting my lover’s family is more stressful than interviewing for a job. Meeting her family while the members are carving meat, and parading in Santa caps around the mistletoe-laden house, could induce stroke-like symptoms. I’ll meet your pet. Anything beyond that is not worth the orgasm.

I think holidays are ideal for pranks. Every year, my neighbor puts a pair of reindeer made from twigs and Christmas lights. And, every year, late at night after I’ve had too much gin, I reposition these eyesores into doggie style. If I could figure out how to convert Rudolph’s red nose into a red rocket deer cock, that would complete my mission. There must be a YouTube instructional video. Other pranks I’m considering include adding fake blood and deer hoofs to bumper wreaths, and rearranging lawn lights into big, saggy bulb boobs. My favorite holiday house party prank remains the upper decker. Look it up.

I’m not being Grinchy. These pranks always net out positive: one or two people upset, dozens more snickering. Heck, you need to crack some eggs to make deviled eggs, right? You need to squish some apples to make hard cider. You need to slaughter some pigs, cows, and birds to make Uncle Tony go into the family room and fall asleep. You need to chop down some pine trees to make bug-infested needle-shedding fire hazards. You need to tear some paper to make high-expectation-having, unappreciative rug rats.